Different Childhoods
by sneezingpigeon
Summary: An alternate world where both Ryzek Noavek and Cyra Noavek have to go through what Lazmet Noavek forces them through their childhood. Ryzek, Cyra POVs. Might add other POVs.


This is my first fanfiction so any comments and suggestions are appreciated.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Carve the Mark as it belongs to Veronica Roth. 

Ryzek's POV (18 seasons):

"Today, Ryzek," my father's voice said, "you will give the order." I was in a small dark room, with stone walls and a huge window in front of me. My father stood at my left shoulder, but he seemed smaller than he usually was—I only came up to his chest in reality, but in that room I stared right at his face. My hands were clenched in front of me. My fingers were long and thin.

"You want . . ." My breaths came shallow and fast. "You want me to . . ."

"Get yourself together," my father growled, grabbing the front of my armour and jerking me toward the window.

Through it I saw an older man, creased and grey haired. He was gaunt and dead in the eyes, with his hands cuffed together. At Father's nod, the guards in the next room approached the prisoner. One of them held his shoulders to keep him still, and the other wrapped a cord around his throat, knotting it tightly at the back of his head. The prisoner didn't put up any protest; his limbs seemed heavier than they were supposed to be, like he had lead for blood.

I shuddered, and kept shuddering.

"This man is a traitor," my father said. "He conspires against our family. He spreads lies about us stealing foreign aid from the hungry and the sick of Shotet. People who speak ill of our family can't simply be killed—they have to be killed slowly. And you have to be ready to order it. You must even be ready to do it yourself, though that lesson will come later."

Dread coiled in my stomach like a worm.

My father made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, and shoved something into my hand. It was a vial sealed with wax.

"If you can't calm yourself down, this will do it for you," he said. "But one way or another, you will do as I say."

I fumbled for the edge of the wax, peeled it off, and poured the vial's contents into my mouth. The calming tonic burned my throat, but it took only moments for my heartbeat to slow and the edges of my panic to soften.

I nodded to my father, who flipped the switch for the amplifiers in the next room. It took me a moment to find the words in the haze that had filled my mind.

"Execute him," I said, in an unfamiliar voice.

One of the guards stepped back and pulled on the end of the cord, which ran through a metal loop in the ceiling like a thread through the eye of a needle. He pulled until the prisoner's toes just barely brushed the floor. I watched as the man's face turned red, then purple. He thrashed. I wanted to look away, but I couldn't.

"Not everything that is effective must be done in public," Father said casually as he flipped the switch to turn the amplifiers off again. "The guards will whisper of what you are willing to do to those who speak out against you, and the ones they whisper to will whisper also, and then your strength and power will be known all throughout Shotet."

A scream was building inside me, and I held it in my throat like a piece of food that was too big to swallow.

"You may leave now, but don't forget what I said," Father continued while walking out. "Manipulate rumours to your advantage."

I nodded stiffly before quickly leaving the room. Barely holding my breath, I ran meaninglessly out on the raining streets of Voa, not caring for the rain that hit me like bullets. After what I just did, I probably deserved worse than just being rained on.

After running through the streets for a few minutes, I headed back to the castle and entered the hallways. My mind went back to what I had done – order the execution of a man. I had to get rid of this memory; I knew I had to. The thought of living on with this memory, eating away at me inside, made bile fill my throat. Up ahead, I could see that Cyra's room was only a few metres away. _She's only 8 seasons old_, a logical part of my mind screamed, _don't do this_. But the urge to remove the horrible memory of what I just did overpowered my previous thoughts. I barged into her bedroom, soaked in rain and breathless. My shoes tripped over whatever she had been building, and she cries out in protest.

"Cyra," I said, crouching beside her. She put her hand on my shoulder to comfort me.

"What is it?" she asked, squeezing. She stared up at me with innocent eyes and I wondered if I had made a mistake in coming.

"Has Father ever brought you somewhere just to . . . show you something?"

"No." Ah. "Never."

"That's not exactly fair, is it?" I said eagerly, trying to hide my bitterness. "You and I are both his children, we ought to be treated the same. Don't you think?"

"I... I suppose," Cyra said. "Ryz, what is—"

But I just placed my palm on her cheek.

Cyra's bedroom, with its rich blue curtains and dark wood panelling, disappeared, and we both went through a cascade of memories.

First, mine of what Father had just made me do. Then hers, of her first sojourn, with a meeting with the leader of Zoldia City.

And as I processed Cyra's memory, I felt mine slowly unwinding, unravelling until I couldn't bring up images of the dying old man or what Father had told me. Then, it was gone. Instead, the foreign memory of Cyra's first sojourn remained.

And Cyra... she looked emptier, somehow. Like she had lost something. A few tears rolled down my cheeks at her expression.

"Cyra," I said. "It's only fair. It's only fair that we should share this burden."

Before she can respond, I reached for her again. As my hand found her cheek, dark, inky veins spread beneath her skin like many-legged insects, like webs of shadow. They moved, crawling up her arms, bringing heat to her face and making it almost hot. And all of a sudden, I felt pain. I screamed, and Cyra's voice joined mine, almost in harmony. It was as if Cyra was the pain, as if she radiated pain.

I yanked my hand away, but to my surprise and horror, the skin-shadows stayed on her skin. Our mother ran into the room with her shirt only half buttoned, her face dripping from washing without drying. She saw the black stains on Cyra's skin and ran to her, setting her own hands on Cyra's arms for just a moment before yanking them back, flinching. She had felt the pain, too, like me. Cyra screamed again, and clawed at the black webs with her fingernails.

I watched as Mother drugged her to calm Cyra down. And from that day on, I never intentionally touched her again. 

A/N: I used and edited an excerpt is from Veronica Roth's Carve the Mark, Chapter 5. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing this! –sneezingpigeon


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